


Breathing Is Everything Is Breathing

by cygnetdandurand



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mostly Sherlock's POV, Mutual Pining, Series of murders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cygnetdandurand/pseuds/cygnetdandurand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of pining for his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes is swept up in a murder mystery that not only tests his abilities as the world's only consulting detective, but also the boundaries of his and John Watson's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Always From Afar, pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins!
> 
> I have a lot planned for this fic, dear reader. I'll do my best to update chapters weekly, though please don't panic if two weeks go by and I haven't even touched it (there are only so many hours in the day that I can dedicate to these lovely idiots).
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome! xx

There was murder in the air that morning.

John’s hands were behind his back, the right one clasped around the wrist of the left. Trigger-ready fingers softened by domesticity. He nodded as an officer explained to him the symptoms of his gout and it brought a certain shimmer to his hair in the early morning light. Layered yellow with greying tips. Just waiting to be disrupted by Sherlock’s fingers. John knew it was gout, he’d mentioned the officer’s ailment to Sherlock when they were pulling up to the crime scene, but he stood and listened anyway. Tugging his bottom lip in between his teeth every so often. Because John cared about people and their petty trifles.

How someone could care enough to hear about the infected, peeling skin of a stranger’s big toe was something Sherlock would never even hope to understand. 

They’d left in a hurry that morning. The back of John’s shirt was dented in, clearly out of the dirty laundry, and he still had toothpaste in the corner of his mouth. Thanks to the endless natterings of a certain landlady, they hadn’t had time for breakfast either. The presence of a corpse usually didn’t put John off his appetite so he'd probably want to get something to eat after this, depending on the severity of the crime scene. They could go to Balthazar and Sherlock could sit across from John and indulge in the sight of his hands in better lighting. Over the years, Sherlock had learned to memorize the details of his flatmate’s body from a safe table-length away.

Though closer research was always sought after.

“Sherlock, are you listening to me?”

Reality came in the form of DI Lestrade’s voice.

Sherlock regained his concentration, like the focusing of a lens, but John remained a hazy figure in his periphery. Not quite there but never quite distant enough.

“If you were to say something of importance for a change perhaps I would be,” Sherlock said, “I told you I’m not going to need any rubber gloves.” He looked around at the boats grounded on shore, impatient to get to the crime scene. Seeing that the body was right on the Thames, in full view of the public, they’d be trying to move it as soon as possible. Tourists didn't like to be reminded of the inevitability of death while on holiday.

Lestrade wouldn’t budge. “It’s protocol. If you want to help with our investigations, you have to play by our rules, alright? We’ve been over this before, Sherlock.”

With a groan, he snatched the gloves out of Lestrade’s hand and tugged them on. The forensics team emerged from the opposite side of a boat, Anderson leading them and Donovan at his heel. The shoes she’d chosen for the day were struggling with the shifting rocks of the shore. “The professionals have finished,” Anderson announced, already unzipping his plastic suit, “you can have a peek now. Though I don’t think you’ll find anything of interest. The cause of death is fairly hard to miss.”

John had appeared at Sherlock’s side, and the detective pretended that the grin spreading across his face was the result of Anderson’s open invitation to be insulted and not the sudden tingling in his fingertips. “Yes, I’m sure. Regardless, I have every faith in Scotland Yard’s ability to miss the unmissable.”

Before Anderson could get another word in, Greg was escorting Sherlock and John across the shore to the crime scene that awaited them. “Sorry about Officer Grimwald,” he told John as they neared the bow, “sounded like he was talking your ear off.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I got a new patient out of it anyway. He’s going to drop by on Monday.”

“Thank God. I know way too much about that man’s feet.”

John smiled, “Glad to be of service,” but it faded at the stench in the air.

Coppery and sour.

When they arrived on the other side of the boat, they didn’t have to wonder where it was coming from.

The body of a middle-aged white man was lain out on the shore, open and gutted like a fish with most of his intestines piled beside him. A gun laid in his hand and the body of a dog with a clean shot to its head laid at his feet. The blood of each corpse had soaked into the shore and festered in the earth over night, hence the particularly off-putting smell.

Hopefully John would still be interested in breakfast.

Sherlock crouched down to inspect the dog first. Its muzzle was soaked in blood, but it hadn’t retained any injuries of its own besides the head wound. There was erratic tearing of the man’s torso as well as significant damage to the internal organs. Sherlock pulled up one of the man’s sleeves before rolling his eyes and standing. “Let me guess,” he turned to Greg, “Anderson believes this to be absent of any foul play." 

“Pretty much, yeah. He said the bloke probably OD’ed, passed out, woke up to his guts being torn apart, shot the dog, but was too late to save himself.”

“Call him over here. You were wise to seek a second opinion, Lestrade.”

Greg faltered for a moment, on the verge of protesting, but upon thinking better of it, went back around the boat without a word.

When they were alone, John stepped forward. “So what did they miss this time?”

His voice made something warm unfurl inside of Sherlock’s chest.

“There,” Sherlock pointed at the man’s arm gnarled by rigor mortis, “difficult to catch due to the way the body was lying. Do you see it?”

John crouched down to get a better look, lifting up the sleeve a bit with his gloved hand. The hand of a soldier and a doctor, not opposed to blood or rotting flesh. “Rope burns? Is that what those are?” he asked.

Sherlock’s smile was too genuine for his own good. “Well done, John. This man was most likely bound and gagged, secured by this metal ring on the boat’s hull.”

“So he couldn’t have shot the dog while it was disemboweling him then if his hands were tied.”

“Correct. And even though an autopsy wouldn’t hurt, I think it’s safe to assume there won’t be any drugs in his system.” 

“Someone tied him up here then and left him to be eaten alive by dogs?” John posed, incredulous. “What would be the point in shooting it then?” 

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?" 

“If the murderer had intended to use the dog to kill him, why shoot it?”

John peered down at his feet as though the answer would be in the red splotches beneath them. “The dog was an accident then? The murderer tied up the man and left him here for some reason but wasn’t finished with him, and when he came back to find the dog eating his victim, he shot it and staged the whole thing to make it look like an accident?”

“You’re smarter than you look,” Sherlock said and any insult the words could have had was lost in the soft crinkle of skin beside his eyes.

John pursed his lips. “Must be pretty damn smart then.” 

“Pretty damn smart.”

Something fantastic fluttered in Sherlock’s stomach. He never wanted the feeling to go away. He wanted to bottle it and store it somewhere deep in his mind palace where he could tap into it anytime of the day. It was light and smooth and golden. Like John’s hair this morning. 

He licked his lips.

And John licked his. 

“You cannot be serious- they don’t all have to be murders, Sherlock!” Anderson interrupted.

And the consulting detective had never felt such a vehement urge to slam Anderson’s head against any available surface.

The next twenty minutes consisted of Sherlock explaining every detail of the murder to the officers and forensics team, from the angle of the bullet wound in the dog’s head down to the type of knot the murderer would have used to detain his victim. In the middle of his deductions, an unnecessary comment about Anderson’s deceased mother earned him a disapproving look from John. He drew Lestrade’s attention, once they were convinced it was murder, to the remnants of some fleeing footprints a few yards away and urged them to get back to him once they had adequately analyzed the crime scene.

John made sure Officer Grimwald had his number before they left. “So,” he said, catching up to Sherlock, “Breakfast?”

“Mm. I was thinking Balthazar.”

John tossed his rubber gloves into a skip before hailing a cab. “God yes.”

Sherlock spent the rest of his morning watching John eat a hardboiled egg and memorizing every intricacy of the doctor’s hands. 

From afar, of course. 

Always from afar.


	2. Always From Afar, pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I love pining.
> 
> And if anyone's wondering, this cipher (by the end) will be solvable. So keep an eye out!
> 
> xx

They found themselves in the customary lab of Barts Hospital the next evening. The case wasn't one of particular interest, but it had been raining for the past six hours and John was threatening his flatmate with another Bond film marathon which, due to the Maltesers incident, would never be happening again. Sherlock was examining photographs of the partially rained on footprints, courtesy of Scotland Yard's finest, while John on the other side of the lab was doing his best not to fall asleep.

  
Which was the most captivating thing Sherlock had ever seen for some reason.

  
Molly had brought him two cups of coffee, black with no sugar, but the allure of sleep was still pulling at John’s eyelids. Every time Sherlock started writing calculations about the footprints, he'd look up and lose all sense of focus. The notes dissolved into observations about John’s jumper, his breathing and blink rate, even the circumference of his knuckles. And for the life of him, Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about what the back of John’s neck would smell like. How it would feel under his lips, what noises John would make as a result. Low and dark? Or something softer? An hour and three crinkled up pieces of paper later, Sherlock realized it was a lost cause with only one solution:

  
He needed to touch John.

  
A simple brush of skin on skin would fulfill his incessant urge to be closer and hopefully declutter his mind of all things John Watson.

  
It usually did.

Though sometimes the absent promise of more touching would stoke a fire in him that could only be put out with a long, cold shower. 

Sherlock had had too many of those lately.

  
"John?" Sherlock asked, pretending to be busied at his microscope.

  
"Yeah?"

  
"Pass me my phone."

  
"If it's within a five meter radius of where you are, I'm not moving."

  
"John," he said again.

  
"Sherlock, you have two working legs."

  
"I'm busy."

  
With a sigh, John scrubbed his hands over his face and pried himself from his chair, “Fine. Where is it?"

"Jacket."

  
An even greater sigh, but John was already walking over to Sherlock. “Where in your jacket?”

“Front inside pocket.”

John paused, most likely contemplating how Sherlock had managed to survive these past 35 years without his constant aid, before slipping his hand into the front of the jacket. Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat at the whisper of contact against his chest. Sweet and fragile. Featherlight. John. He let his eyes flutter shut before John removed his hand because- ”That pocket’s empty.”

“Oh. Oops,” Sherlock feigned surprise, “Try left jacket pocket.”

John gave him a look before doing as instructed. He retrieved the phone and held it out to Sherlock who took it gladly, only his fingertips lingered for a fraction too long on John’s wrist as though he was trying to imprint something there. The electricity ran up his arm and into his brain. Lovely. “Thank you,” he said, glancing away from his microscope to inspect his phone screen.

Five texts from Molly.

Sherlock had expected John to walk away once the phone was in his hand, go back to the medical reports he was reading, possibly fall asleep on top of them. But instead, John lingered by Sherlock’s side, so close their shoulders were touching. Sherlock locked his jaw. That definitely wasn’t helping. John picked up a few photographs on the table and gave them the once over. “So have you found anything interesting?”

You.

“No, unfortunately. The footprints were too affected by the rain to gain anything more than an approximate shoe size, possibly the murderer’s height,” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, where John’s hand had been just a moment ago, “Remind me to tell Anderson he’s more incompetent than I could have ever dreamed.”

John stifled a grin. Badly. “Oh I don't think I’ll have to remind you.” He looked closer at a photo of the victim with the severity of someone who’s seen that sort of carnage before. On a battlefield and a street corner, in John’s case. A long silence passed before he asked, “You're sure this is the only one?”

Sherlock looked up. “What?”

“The only victim. You sure this isn't part of a serial?”

“Why?” 

“It’s just-” John furrowed his brow down at the photo, “Odd. Kind of meticulous for just a normal murder.”

Sherlock’s phone vibrated against the table as “MOLLY” flashed across its screen.

Something interesting happening in the morgue then. Good. Perhaps a corpse would do a better job at occupying his mind.

Sherlock stood, slipped on his jacket, and tied his scarf accordingly. “Don't get my hopes up, John. I'd kill for the distraction of a serial murder right now.”

“And why’s that?” John asked with a grin. But there was something in his tone that told Sherlock he knew exactly why. A pulse of something dangerously close to fear stilled his movements.

“What do-”

Molly burst through the door before Sherlock could finish.

Her hair was secured by a pair of protective medical glasses and in her gloved hands was something folded and saturated in blood. “Sherlock, I’ve been texting you for the last hour!” she panted, scuttling into the lab, “The murderer left a note!”

Molly stood in between Sherlock and John and unfolded the paper, careful not to tear it. “It was in the pancreas. Very easy to miss unless you were looking for it.”

The letters ESHSOJ could be made out through the haze of red.

John and Sherlock’s eyes met.

“Sherlock, someone’s calling you,” Molly removed the glove from her free hand to pick up the phone and show him, “It’s Greg.”

“There’s been another one,” Sherlock smiled, taking the phone in hand.

Finally. A capital distraction.

  
Sherlock put the phone to his ear and started for the door. “Come along, John. The game is on!”


	3. Red Thread

Mrs. Hudson descended the stairs, duster in hand, as John Watson ascended the stairs, shopping in hand.

“Evening, John,” she greeted as they both reached the landing.

“Good evening, Mrs. Hudson. You know you don’t have to do that, don’t you?” he told her, nodding down to the various cleaning instruments sticking out of her pockets, “I’m sure if the flat got dirty enough, Sherlock would worry about it contaminating one of his experiments or something and actually clean it for himself.”

The landlady only laughed. “Oh, John, I don't mind. I was just finishing up my kitchen and thought I’d give yours a good scrubbing while I still had everything out.”

John’s smile softened a bit as he adjusted the plastic bags in his hands. “Find anything interesting?”

“Interesting?”

“You know...anything dead?”

“Oh! No, dear, I never open the fridge anymore. Not after that plate of ears,” she shuddered at the memory and puttered down the rest of the stairs.

“Is he talking yet?” John called after her.

“Only to himself, dear,” she called back.

Wonderful.

John made it to the top of the stairs and shouldered his way into the kitchen. The countertops were cleared, all of the mugs were in their proper shelves, even the table was clean, save the microscope and a few graduated cylinders that seemed to have become a permanent fixture there. He took in a lungful of air. Fresh pastries and citrus floor cleaner. “Don’t worry,” he said, putting the shopping down, “I’ve got it.”

Sherlock, who was in the living room, didn’t stir. “This case is magnificent, John.”

Crime scene photos from the past two murders were pasted on the section of wall above the couch, all red and black splotches against the wallpaper. Sherlock stood in front of them and digested his thoughts with fingers steepled under his chin. On top of the smiley face composed of bullet holes, a copy of the first enciphered message hung above the second (whose letters had been SREEOX, found in the victim’s stomach this time) with no solution to either of them yet.

Once the shopping was all sorted and put away, John joined him. “Make any progress?”

Sherlock gestured to a few photos strewn about the desk without looking away from the ones on the wall. “Sort of. Even though these murders have an obvious connection to one another, it appears they weren't performed by the same person. Footprints found at the second crime scene didn't correlate with the ones found at the first, damaged as they were.”

John walked over to the desk. The footprints in the photograph made a neat trail on the concrete of an industrial warehouse leading away from the body of the victim and stopping at its doors. “Maybe the footprints from the first one didn't have anything to do with the crime scene and these ones belong to the actual murderer?” John offered.

“It’s possible, though look how intentional these ones are,” Sherlock moved over to the desk, “Every other aspect of this murder was clean cut, fastidious even, except for the footprints. The victim was targeted and killed in seclusion. The stomach was emptied with a near surgical precision before the note was planted. No witnesses, no fingerprints, no DNA. The murderer had the entire night to get rid of any incriminating evidence and yet the footprints imply they were walking to the door at a leisurely pace, almost intentionally keeping each print in tact. The first crime scene lacked this sort of finesse in every aspect. Even if the footprints belonged to someone else, the murder itself should have been more calculated. It doesn't add up.”

“They were interrupted though, right? The dog and everything?”

“Yes but they left the victim. And were planning to murder them in almost full view of the public.”

John nodded and took this opportunity to glance at Sherlock. Clean shirt, messy hair, probably hadn't left the house once today. “Sherlock,” John said, “Have you eaten anything?”

He had the good sense to turn away before rolling his eyes. “A case like this is nutrition enough, John.”

“No,” John said, pinching the skin in between his eyes, “ _Nutrition_ is nutrition enough,” he stepped back into the kitchen. “I'm making you something. What do you want?”

“Just tea, thanks.”

John sighed but knew it would be better than nothing. He put on the kettle and took down two mugs while thinking about what he'd be making himself for dinner. Maybe he could order in. Chinese? Sherlock always stole a few bites if he got dumplings. “So what now then? Are we just supposed to wait for another murder?”

“That’s how serial cases usually go,” Sherlock laid down on the couch, “and if the intention behind these murders is to complete the cipher then I surmise there will be a good number more,” and he definitely shouldn't have sounded as contented by that as he did.

John stepped back into the living room to point out this social blunder to Sherlock but, instead, noticed the pillow and duvet he was lying on top of.

“Did you sleep in here last night?”

The edge of concern in John’s voice made Sherlock curl his toes into the couch cushion. “Heater in my room’s gone awry. Should only be temporary.”

“Sherlock, that can't be comfortable.”

“What do you advise I do until it's fixed? Have a sleepover with Mycroft? I’d frankly rather die on this couch.”

“We could share my bed.”

Silence.

Deafening silence.

No.

Absolutely not.

Sherlock didn't have enough self control to be trusted with that sort of intimate space.

Hands would stray and reveal Sherlock’s long suppressed lust for his flatmate.

“No thank you, John,” Sherlock said in as casual a tone as he could muster, “that won't be necessary.”

“Are you sure? I really don't mind, Sherlock.”

_I don't mind._

_Whatever you like._

_It's all fine._

“No. Thank you,” he said, more curtly than he meant to.

When John opened his mouth to say something else, Sherlock stood and plucked up his violin from the couch’s arm, fitting it under his chin and taking up the bow in one fluid motion.

Facing the window, he’d play William’s _The Lark Ascending_ while John made them their tea, ordered their dinner, and listened. Maybe he’d hear more than the music’s whole notes and half rests. Maybe he’d hear Sherlock’s heart in every string and be contented with that.

Meanwhile, Sherlock could untangle the red thread strung between them from the red thread of murder, isolate every strand, and put it in its place.

Everything had a proper place after all.

John’s was upstairs in his bed.

While Sherlock’s was downstairs on the couch.


	4. The Poorly Orchestrated Brass Section of an Orchestra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sort of stupidly busy- sorry for the wait! Hope this chapter's worth it. (Mycroft's always worth it, let's be honest.)
> 
> Comments and kudos always welcome! xx

Once the press had caught wind of Sherlock’s case, his inbox was overflowing. The general public loved reading about serial killers. There was something about being so far removed from danger yet still in the midst of it that made them feel alive. Though the moment those black and white pages turned into a murdered loved one, everything became real and unwanted and dangerous.

People only really loved danger when it wasn’t on their doorstep.

Well. Most people.

The reporters should have known that the detective couldn’t be bribed into telling them whatever details they needed for an eye catching headline, but nevertheless, outside the door of 221b they remained, swimming in circles like sharks waiting for the first scent of blood. They had no way knowing that Sherlock was at a dead end in the case, and having already explored every possible avenue of inquiry, all he could do was wait and hope the cigarettes he’d hidden in the hollow leg of his desk chair wouldn't start calling his name.

With a pair of feet in the fridge, hopefully he could pass the time productively.

John was out this morning seeing a certain officer about his gout and thus Sherlock could use one of Mrs. Hudson’s dripping catchers, normally reserved for her pies, for his experiments without being reprimanded. He set the tray and its helping of feet in the middle of their coffee table and assembled the surgical instruments around it with the finesse of someone arranging a bouquet of roses. Though roses wilted faster than embalmed feet. After rolling up the sleeves of his robe, Sherlock took up the scalpel, started an incision, and was halted by the squeal of car brakes outside. Moments later, the reporters had cleared away.

Mycroft.

A perfect afternoon ruined.

To think that someone could hold such a prominent seat in the British government and still find time to poke around in his brother's affairs was astounding.

Sherlock replaced the scalpel, crossed to the desk chair, braced his hand on its back, and kicked off its hollow leg. Three cigarettes tumbled to the floor. Two of them Sherlock pocketed while placing the third between his lips. He listened to his brother ascend the seventeen steps and it was as pleasant a sound as the poorly orchestrated brass section of a symphony.

The door creaked open as Sherlock flicked a lighter to life and held its flame to the end of his cigarette. The smoke sank into his lungs, caressing his trachea with sweet familiarity.

“Chair leg, Sherlock? A little uninspired, I must say.”

“John isn’t as thorough as you and mother used to be.”

Mycroft stepped into the flat, giving the floor a single tap with the end of his umbrella, “To be fair, he’s yet to understand the lengths you’ve gone to in order to appease that little habit of yours.”

Sherlock turned around, took a defiant drag, and blew it in his brother’s face.

“Well,” Mycroft said, seemingly unfazed, “there’s no use raking over old coals, now is there?” He took a seat in John’s chair and gestured for Sherlock to sit opposite him.

“Why’re you here?” he asked instead.

“To talk.”

“‘Talk?’” Sherlock repeated the word as though it was a new addition to the English language, “About what? You know I’m busy with a case. You saw the reporters outside,” another puff, “You’ve probably been following my progress since-” exhale, “-the first murder.”

“Sit down, Sherlock.”

As much as the detective despised following his brother’s orders, he knew this process would go a lot quicker if he were to comply, painful as it was. After a glance toward the feet waiting on his coffee table, Sherlock frowned down at his chair.

Once he had settled in, Mycroft asked- “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” and found the answer in Sherlock’s venomous glare.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “This case certainly seems to have caught the attention of the press. They were hoping for some tidbits to publish this morning, but it seemed you were being rather unhelpful towards their cause. Those notes found in the victim’s organs...very peculiar, don't you think?”

“I’m always thinking. It's my job.”

Mycroft pointedly looked at the cigarette, “Then have you made any sense of them yet?”

“What?”

“Do you have any conjectures as to what the cipher structure may be? Or more importantly, the reasoning behind the killer’s actions? Have you made any progress whatsoever?”

Sherlock scoffed. “If you were this concerned as to whether I was doing my job properly or not, Mycroft, you would have come here before indulging in coffee and breakfast.”

Mycroft looked down at his lapel and swiped away the trail of croissant crumbs. He cleared his throat and continued, “What about the victims? There isn't any link between their physical appearances so the killer must be targeting them another way. Have you looked into-”

Now Sherlock was laughing, bitterly and slowly. He took another drag and let the smoke remain in his lungs for a moment before exhaling and settling his gaze on Mycroft. “Why are you here?” Sherlock repeated, punctuating every word.

Mycroft seemed so displeased at his brother’s impatience.

Though displeasure _was_ his default setting.

“Your name, Sherlock, has already been attached to this case and will be until it has reached a formidable resolution. The press has been itching to make a fool of you for years now and if you are unable to catch the person or persons responsible for these murders, and there will certainly be more of them, then they will be sure to make you lose all credibility in the eye of the public.”

“In what world would I not be able to solve this case, Mycroft?”

“A world where John Watson exists.”

The cigarette stalled on Sherlock’s lips.

“Sorry?”

Blood pulsed to his fingertips, his cheeks. Sherlock was...blushing?

“Your on-going infatuation with him seemed harmless at first, almost an incentive for you to impress, but of late it has been pulling your focus away from the work at hand. If you are incapable of reigning in your good senses, I would strongly recommend that you take a short reprieve from your acquaintance with him until this case has been solved. Sentiment is a dangerous chemical defect found on the losing side,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “and you are losing, brother mine.”

It would have been easier to construct an argument if Mycroft wasn't right.

“I am perfectly capable of performing my duties as a consulting detective while living under the same roof as John Watson,” Sherlock said, voice more strained than he would have liked, “And while I'm touched by your sudden concern for my well-being, I must kindly ask you to piss off and leave me alone.”

“Do you plan on making advancements towards him?” Mycroft asked.

Silence.

“And if he doesn't accept them, what then? It will destroy you, Sherlock, we both know that. And all of your work with it. You can’t expect me to sit idly by as you set fire to everything you’ve worked for.”

“John is the reason I have everything I’ve worked for.”

And it was Mycroft’s turn to be silent.

“If you want me to finish this case so that I can continue appealing to your dull masses then it would be in your best interest to ensure I am not separated from John Watson,” it shouldn't have sounded like a threat, but it was. Every word slicing like a razor, “If I do ever choose to make advancements towards him, you will be the last person I choose to consult on the subject.” Sherlock put out the cigarette against the arm of his chair and stood, “I believe I asked you to leave, Mycroft.”

He stood, unhappily, and made his way toward the door, “Unwise, brother mine. I’ll be in touch with Scotland Yard over the next week. If I find no advancements have been made in the case, actions will be taken.”

He descended the stairs before Sherlock could retort.

After a few moments of silence, the room felt different somehow.

Like the wallpaper had been peeled away to reveal something private. And when John walked in, he’d be able to read it all, line by line.

Sherlock glanced at the feet that were patiently waiting to be torn to pieces and decided that John was complicated.

That feelings were complicated.

And that embalmed flesh was not. 


End file.
